Life: Quantity or Quality?

A Brief Argument Regarding Excellence, Existence, and Essence

(previously written as a monograph under the pseudonym J.L. Jordan)

In one memorable scene from The Simpsons, Homer admonishes his wife Marge with one of his classic pleonasms: "Marge, it takes two to lie, one to lie and one to listen." Homer's belief was that Marge was just as much at fault for believing Homer's fib as he was in telling it. His point, however flawed, is that deception is a two-way street. Those of us who are conned bear some responsibility for not fighting to maintain a clear-headed understanding of the truth. Since the issue at hand is not a long-running animated show on FOX but the sanctity of human life, the battle is all the more paramount. This is not an area where clear-thinking people can just lay down their brains and not engage.

How to begin any discussion of human life, of the commandment "You shall not murder" is critically important. To immediate execute an applicable nosedive into issues of murder, capital punishment, manslaughter, abortion, and the like is understandable and can be well-intentioned, but it is also a catastrophic adventure in missing the point. We have to ask "Why is life worth defending?", which still doesn't get at the heart of the matter. Perhaps "Why is life worth living?" is even better but still begs the question.

Answers to the latter question bubble up in places ranging from university philosophy seminars to a conversation between friends at a Starbucks in Nashville to the tears of a young girl in Indiana who has endured sexual assault at the hands of a family member. Far from an ivory-tower query, the common good of the human race hinges on how we answer it. Specifics may vary, but the broad contours of the meaning of life come down to three categories:

(1) Life has meaning because mine is a life of impact due to others noticing my achievements. (Excellence)
(2) Life has meaning because I am here on earth as a capable human being and I am exhilarated by life's possibilities, whether I am noticed or not. (Existence)
(3) Life has meaning because I--whether I make foreseeable impact or not, and whether I am viewed as capable or not--am a uniquely special part of a Design, an intentioned craft of a Designer.

The first argument--the one from excellence--is commendable because, after all, the idea of achievement is far superior to the concept of aiming low. The ancient Egyptian Pharaoh Seunsert III declared that "Vigor is valiant, but cowardice is vile." The Christian Scripture implores its listeners that "Whatever you do, work heartily...knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward." (Colossians 3:23-24) Charles Kettering said that "high achievement always takes the place in the framework of high expectation."

However, there is a firm distinction between doing one's best and being known for greatness. First of all, greatness can be snagged by dubious methods. While the case may be rare, a high school valedictorian can cheat to get straight A's. Corporate accomplishments can be reached by practices devoid of any ethics. Or people may want recognition without wanting to sacrifice for the prize. Witness the increasing slew of high school students in our nation's schools--private and public--who believe that the reception of a degree is an automatic voucher to good fortune.

Regardless, your accomplishments aren't a good measuring stick of your self-worth or the meaning of life because of the twin simple reasons that (1) they vacillate and (2) they will be forgotten. And it begs the question, "What if I am never remembered? What then?" It does help to know that, as David McCullough, Jr., said so eloquently in his YouTube-viral graduation address, you should "climb the mountain, not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air, and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you."

One would then certainly believe the answer comes in drawing the circle more widely, to say Life has meaning because I am here on earth as a capable human being and I am exhilarated by life's possibilities, whether I am noticed or not. This argument from existence may ring the bell more deeply at the core of our beings because so much of what we do does fly under the radar. We may say in concert with Jean-Paul Sartre that "man is nothing else than that which he makes of himself" as long as we make our peace with the fact it may not be noticed. We are here, we exist, and we die, in our own capability and by our specific, unique talents. Erasmus was fond of saying, "It is the chiefest point of happiness that a man is willing to be what he is."

But is this what makes us special, what makes us unique, what makes life worth living or worth protecting? The moment we define humans by the sum of what they seem to be, we still have to ask the question, "What about the less endowed, the less talented, the less mobile, the intellectually compromised?"

I received an email a few weeks back from a father whose infant son is stricken by a syndrome that affects his vision and his muscular development. In short, the neurologist has told this man and his wife that--while surgery is an option--they should likely expect their son to possibly be able to sit up, eat, look around, not have much cognitive interaction, and then die after a year or two of age.

What happens if this child is not able for recover, to do anything beyond sitting up, beyond a stare or a sweet smile? What if a treatment or cure is never found for this syndrome? Is it better that this child and others like him with his condition are never born?

To say that life is only worth living if the odds of suffering are greatly decreased and the odds of comfort and ability are significantly raised betrays an attitude that we can make the call on that. Not to mention, I am wary of "spectrum ethics" in which people argue for good based on degrees of quality. At what point is suffering "too much" or ability "just enough", and who makes the call on that anyway? The truth is that we are designed on purpose--however flawed and limited our bodily abilities may be--or we are not. Our essence is either that of people charged with and infused with dignity, or worthless piles of nothingness. There is no middle ground.

I'd argue (although I'd admit perhaps I haven't done so that sharply) that life is worth living and worth defending and worth protecting, enhancing, and promoting for the unambiguous reason that we--from the moment sperm and egg slam together to when the last breath leaves the body--are designed for purpose. Whether great or small, noticed or ignored, no life is unimportant. Everything we do, to paraphrase Martin Luther, honors the Designer, not just because what we do matters, but because who we are matters.

That's whether you live for eighty-four years, or eight years and four months, or eight months and four days, or eighty minutes and four seconds, or eighty-four seconds after conception. Whether you are an Olympic athlete, a garbage man, or a child with cystic fibrosis. Who you are matters, and you matter supremely, because you have been designed supremely to matter.

And how we answer the meaning-of-life question, bowing either to excellence, existence, or essence, will matter supremely. And before answering quickly or in blithe fashion, consider this: Might the human race's default mode of living, one of functioning and working toward desires and goals as if there is something worth shooting for...might this give evidence that who we are matters, from the warmth of the womb to the cold of the grave? It seems to be either that or total despair. How indeed could there be any middle ground?

Obedience: Both Thoughtful and Not

This week in Ethics class, we've covered the fifth commandment: "Honor your father and your mother", which has extended application to honoring all authority. I've discussed the distinction between honor and respect [honor is automatic, based on position; respect is earned, based on character exhibited in exercise of one's authority], and why it is important to honor the authorities in our lives.

One other item we covered was "What happens when authority goes toxic?" In short, what if you were living in Nazi Germany in the 1930s and 1940s? How do you minimally honor a regime you can't respect? What of a young person whose parent sexually molests and abuses them? If respect is out the window, how does one honor the parent? 

These are tough questions, and we tackled them all. Then I showed a video clip toward the end of class to point out that as humans, we have something in our core that leans toward following someone or something. No matter how much leadership in life we take on, we all do some following of direction. But we are given minds to use, minds that can ask "Is the path I'm following the right one, a good one, a noble one."

To that end, I showed them a replica of the Milgram Experiment. To say it was eye-opening is putting it mildly. I invite you to watch it yourself and consider what it says about our human behavior.

So What Would I Write?

This past weekend, I finished the first draft of my sixth manuscript in the Cameron Ballack Mystery series. That means I'm rounding third base and heading for home, because the seventh installment of the disabled, agnostic St. Louis sleuth will be the last volume. 

That reality has brought on its fair share of nostalgia, for a couple of reasons. First, closing out the Cameron Ballack series, from the planning stages of the final novel to the last word written in revision, will have the feel of saying goodbye to an old friend. Investing that much time in creating, sustaining, and breathing increasing life into a character makes them somewhat a part of your own identity.

But the other reason focuses on the future, because once I'm done with the CBMS, I won't (indeed, I can't) stop writing. I will always possess the desire to create new worlds. Yet that raises the question, "What will those worlds look like?"

Thought you'd never ask! I have a number of ideas for future writing projects banging around in my head, but here are the top four:

(1) Historical fiction set in World War I: I love the Great War, as it is known in Europe. While WW2 inflicted more lasting physical damage and shifted the political chess board of Europe significantly for the next half-century, the Great War made a more lasting worldview impact on the populace of the entire planet. It brought a halt to the school of progressivism (at least to the idea that thought it really had a grip on what human nature was) and introduced the cold reality that humanity is brutal and capable of much evil. The lack of geopolitical trust has run in the veins of the world ever since. The texture of that world draws me to one day write a novel set in that time, with recapturing and redemption at the heart of the story. In fact, I've already begun research on it!

(2) Revisionist sports history: I've always admired Harry Turtledove for his novels of alternate history (e.g., Hitler's War exploring what would have happened if Chamberlain stood up to the Fuhrer). The more I thought about it, I began postulating "What if you could do this in the sports world?"...I've being thinking about the "what ifs" of sports, particularly the 1981 major league baseball players strike. The work rupture forced league executives to declare that the division leaders in the first half of the season in each league would play the second-half division leaders. The winner of each series would play the others for the league championship, and those teams would move on to the World Series. Intriguingly, the National League East winners were the Philadelphia Phillies (first half) and Montreal Expos (second half) and the West matched the Los Angeles Dodgers (first half) vs. the Houston Astros (second half). In truth, though, if you combine the records of both halves of the year, the best overall records belonged to the St. Louis Cardinals (East) and the Cincinnati Reds (West)! In fact, the Reds had the best overall record in baseball, but neither they nor the Cards made the playoffs. What if the league execs decided against this double-division format? Who would end up in the Series? That would be an interesting exploration!

(3) Speaking of sports, it's clear that college football has become a big time multi-million dollar business. Is there anyplace where the purity of decent, sportsmanlike competition still reigns? Look no further than the New England Small College Athletic Conference, an alliance of smaller schools in the shadow of Ivy League-land. In the NESCAC, the athletic programs are strictly overseen, student-athletes are part of the ordinary tapestry of academic and social life of each campus, and athletics is part of the overall academic mission (that is, books over ball). I have thought it would be great to take September through November off one year, go to New England, and travel to the campuses of Amherst, Bates, Bowdoin, Colby, Hamilton, Middlebury, Trinity, Tufts, Wesleyan, and Williams; to attend practices, meet with student-athletes--particularly football players--and coaches; to immerse myself in the spirit of smaller town Yankee life; and to tell the story of an eight-game season in which the purity of the sport trumps any win-at-all-costs desire. Yeah, with my schedule, it's a pipe dream, but I can hope, can't I?

(4) Finally, I have given thought to staying in the mystery genre while de-emphasizing the murder aspect. The British school of the cozy mystery has always held a certain appeal, and my latest favorite author in this tribe is James Runcie (son of the former Archbishop of Canterbury) and his volumes of The Grantchester Mysteries. I'll be doing a review of his latest effort, Sydney Chambers and the Problem of Evil, but for now suffice it to say Runcie has inspired me to try my hand at the novellas-within-a-volume approach, where a book contains loosely connected short stories. Runcie's clerical gumshoe, Sydney Chambers, is able to go where the police cannot, and so I've thought one could do the same with a prep school chaplain if the ingredients were stirred together in the right proportion. There are possibilities here...

At any rate, those ideas are well down the road of coming to fruition. But it's nice to know the creative waterfall is not running dry.

In Memory of Andy

Today marks eighteen years since my friend Andy Tant died. Today his father, Mike, shared a poem in remembrance of his son and my friend. I've received Mike's permission to share it in the blogosphere, and I hope the words bless you as they have me.

"Ripple"

by Mike Tant

A leaf floats gently on the breeze,

As it spins and twists in an apparent random fall,

Only its Maker, the Lord of wind

Knows where it will come to rest

The leaf floats gently on the breeze,

And on the pond it settles as silently as the snow.

The pond struggles against its weight,

And sends out ripples announcing the invasion.

The leaf sinks quietly in the pond,

As the ripples expand from the source;

They travel to an unseen shore

And moisten, for awhile, a patch of dry ground.

A life well-lived for Christ is like that leaf upon the breeze;

The soul does not always understand the twists and turns,

But the Maker's plan is sure.

And He is able to make the slightest good--

A thing that impacts and endures.

Long Live the Queen

Today dawned like most other days, cold and crisp in St. Louis although slightly warmer than the last couple of days. People were getting ready for Thanksgiving dinners, and much of the citizenry of the area seems to be hopeful that things are turning toward a more peaceful and conversational journey in the neighborhood of Ferguson. In the 107th edition of the Frisco Bell game between Kirkwood High School and rival Webster Groves, the Pioneers of KHS won today. 

But in the midst of these events, I opened up my Facebook page to some devastating news. Yes, there are more tragic details in the world right now, but this sadness washed over me in a massive tidal wave.

P.D. James, the greatest crime novelist of the modern age, died this morning at her home in Oxford, England. The reigning mistress of the murder mystery, the one who penned the Adam Dalgliesh novels as well as the dystopian novel The Children of Men, gone from this earth.

I've mentioned before how high school teachers such as Deb Clarke inspired me to write well and bring stories to life. But P.D. James--although I never had the pleasure or opportunity to meet her--was the one who inspired me to become a novelist, to craft mysteries, and to pursue and love the murder genre.

In 2006, Children of Men hit the movie screen and Christy and I both prepped for the film by reading the book. While the film dazzled due to its intense themes and amazing cinematography (not to mention the numerous single-shot sequences), the book greatly moved me. Here at last was an author who found the perfect balance of threading plot, setting, and character so expertly together, who told a story so well that at its end you were equally satisfied and yet hungry for more.

It was in the spring that I was lunching with my colleague Mack Gray during a break at Wellington Christian School when I mentioned how much I enjoyed Children of Men. He responded, "That was a switch from her usual stuff."

Usual stuff. As in her murder mysteries.

That summer, as Joshua struggled to recover from his spinal fusion surgery, I gallivanted through Death in Holy Orders, followed by A Taste For Death, then The Murder Room, before finishing Devices and Desires before the school year rolled around. I've read every one of her Adam Dalgliesh novels with the exception of Death of An Expert Witness. Her output includes the aforementioned The Children of Men, as well as two Cordelia Gray novels, the stand-alone Innocent Blood, and the Jane Austen-inspired murder mystery Death Comes To Pemberley.

It was through P.D. James that I learned a great deal of how to be a novelist, as I experienced many of her personal suggestions in the depth and breadth of her stories, as well as her Talking About Detective Fiction. She and I both have one thing in common, as we both published our first novels at the age of 42. But that, trust me, is where the similarities end. 

Her life was never an easy ride. Her mother was committed to an asylum when James was only 14, so that she had to care for her siblings by herself. Her husband--flagellated by the horrors of serving in World War II--ended up in an institution as well, leaving P.D. to care for their daughters Clare and Jane.

But her writing, far from being an escape, was drenched heavily in realism from her work in Britain's National Health Service and other areas. Her pen created the last of the line of gentlemen detectives, Adam Dalgliesh, although his humanness is more relatable and believable than Dorothy Sayers' creation of Lord Peter Wimsey.

And the street jargon of pot-boilers had no place with James, nor did the speculative suspension of disbelief one finds in some areas of the cozy writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. One finds only crisp, elegant, proper-use English and undeniable, uncompromising realism with the Queen of Detective Fiction.

My first novel in the Cameron Ballack mystery series, Litany of Secrets, was heavily influenced by the first James novel I ever read, Death in Holy Orders. The seminary setting was too good to pass up. And even now as I work through another Cameron Ballack manuscript (my sixth novel in a series of seven), I keep using Dalgliesh as the yardstick by which Ballack is measured. James' use of character is just that good.

The influence of Phyllis Dorothy James in my writing life is incalculable. And with her death, which took place peacefully at her home, the true age of the gentleman detective is over, and we shall not be seeing the likes of someone like James again. The world of literature is a vastly more beautiful place because she has lived and written, and the world itself is a sadder place because she has died.

That is both a tragedy and an appropriate selah. Just like her books, James satisfies you and yet leaves you wanting more. In my opinion, there neither will be nor should there be another P.D. James.

Rest in peace, O Queen. May you live long in the memories of your devoted masses. You have found an eternal place in mine.

From Father to Son

My dear precious Jordan,

Six years have gone by since the last time I held you in my arms. Six years of thoughts, tears, warm memories, and all other emotions. I've shared so many things about you to others, written about you, and from time to time have wished that you could come back--even for a few minutes that we might have together. The final wish is, of course, impractical although I think it's understandable. But there is one river I've never crossed, although my journey toward it has been building for some time. And that tributary is to tell you the things I never got to share while you were with us.

You crashed-landed into my life at a time when I was weary yet comfortable. It was the day we moved to Florida when Mom found out that night that you were on the way. I said "comfortable" earlier because I thought we were done having children. And having another boy meant the possibilities of one with the challenges that your big brother continues to face. Yet the pregnancy test didn't lie. You shook up my world--our world--but it was in a way we desperately needed.

And I was weary. Mom and I were both coming up on 36 years of age. I had run my course with being a pastor in North Carolina and was running on fumes. I was still in healthy adulthood and had the tepid energy reserves of old age. My body, my heart, and my soul were shot.

And at that point...something akin to what the Scriptures say, "in the fullness of time"...you came. You came with a silent cry and flailing limbs and a NICU residence with a reflux problem that we had to fix with surgery when you were a few weeks old. And of course, myotubular myopathy, just like Joshua.

That was the time when I felt God throw away an emotional anchor and thus liberated my heart. Your smile, your feistiness, your adorability (if that can be a word) gave light to my soul. Yes, there were many reasons why the days of your life might have been physically draining. Joshua's spine surgery and recovery, lack of sleep for Mom and I, scrambling to land a new job and ending up in St. Louis. Sometimes I wonder how we lived through the challenges, but you rolled with it. Not to mention you loved getting extra snuggles with Mom or I when you could.

I shake my head to think what you'd be like now. Given how much you loved to pull Lindsay's hair or knock her block towers over, or covertly pull Joshua's velcro shoe straps, or sneak down the hallway when Mom or I weren't looking...I imagine you'd spend a fair bit of school time in the principal's office. "Now, Jordan, why did you make the toilet seats explode?" I think that if you saw a blow torch, some baking soda, and a bungee cord, you'd find some path to constructive mischief. I'd like to think you're doing that now in Heaven.

But one memory comes to the fore above all others. It was soon after you learned to walk in October, just a month before God took you home. It was an evening in which I lay sprawled on my back on the floor. There was much activity going on, but for whatever reason you made a beeline to me. Gently but firmly, you head butted me. You loved head butts. Then you "tackled" me with all the reserves of what strength you had and I tumbled on my back, with your head dropping onto my chest with a muffled "whump" against my sternum. I tickled you in your ribs, with you making your squeaky little laughs. 

And then I patted you on the back, saying, "Jordan, I need to get up." I would lift myself up off the ground and put a hand on the floor to push myself to my feet.

Your reaction? You'd collapse onto my chest and "pin" me back on the floor.

We'd do this three or four times. Each time, you wouldn't let me go, pinning me to the floor. And finally, I'd look at you and say, "Jordan, Daddy's not going to leave you."

And how big was your smile? Full moon on a summer night doesn't even begin to describe it. Followed by the biggest bear hug you could muster.

Looking back on those sacred moments now brings me pain, but it's what one could call a good pain. You showed both the tenacity of holding on to God and the unrestrained joy we should feel when we know God loves us totally.

Your grandpa (my dad) said something soon after you went to be with Jesus. He said, "Thanksgiving will always be different for you now. Yet in deep grief we can still find massive grace."

You, my son, brought so much grace into my life. You opened my eyes, gave light to my heart, and you reflected your name so well.

Jordan Christopher. Literally, one who comes down and brings Jesus.

Thank you, my son, for making an old man feel young again, for showing the unfettered wind in the sails of your soul, for proving that the weakest among us are the strongest of spirit...

...and for the greatest gift of all: For teaching me more about the tenacious and tender love of God in nineteen months than I had learned in all of my life before. 

Thank you, my son whom I love, for being true to your name, for coming down for even a short life as you had, and bringing Jesus to me.

I love you,
Daddy

Westminster: A Family of Grace in Deepest Grief

Six years ago this week, my father was piecing together the Sunday service at the church he pastored at the time in Mississippi. With careful planning he began by placing--at the beginning of the service--a prayer for meditation. It was a supplication by William Jay in the nineteenth century, and it went as follows:

     "If we are indulged with prosperity let not our prosperity destroy us nor injure us. If we are exercised with adversity, suffer us not to sink in the hour of trouble, or sin against God. May we know how to be abased without despondence, and to abound without pride. If our relative comforts are continued to us, may we love them without idolatry, and hold them at Thy disposal; and if they are recalled from us, may we be enabled to say, The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

Dad has said since that given the events of that next Sunday, it was indeed a providential passage. I have occasionally re-read that prayer since, but an hour ago, one thing leapt out at me: Ten times in that prayer, you have some form of the first person plural pronoun, either "we", "our", or "us". That became a reality for us when Dad's church was meditating on that prayer the next Sunday, November 23, 2008, about six hundred miles away from us.

That morning. 

Our sweet son, Jordan.  Nineteen months old. Afflicted with myotubular myopathy like his older brother Joshua, yet so brave and joyful. Little Jordan had suddenly and peacefully passed away in his crib. And our world shattered.

Over the course of the next week, all the way to and past the funeral, a bevy of family and friends came into town to be with us, to grieve with and for us. Mom and Dad arrived the day after Jordan died, friends from our church in Florida came in the day before the funeral. We felt incredibly remembered and profoundly loved.

The more the years pass, I recall more and more later on during the morning and that evening after Jordan went to be with the Lord. It was originally a blur, but the major factor that got us through that day was the steady flow of visitors from Westminster Christian Academy, where I was in my first year on staff.

If there's a school community that tops Westminster in flooding such weary, grieving souls with comfort, grace, and peace, I haven't run across such an institution.

I remember headmaster Jim Marsh coming to our door, entering in and grasping Christy and I in a massive double-hug, absorbing the shock of death and sadness with kindness. There was Lucy Erdman and Kathy Karigan, who brought art supplies over for our kids so they could draw and color and healthily distract themselves from what had hit them that day. Sherrie Blough went out and got a Build-a-Bear gift card for Lindsay. Craig Dunham--then my Bible department colleague and now a headmaster in Oklahoma City--came by to sit, chat, and listen. The word got around to the entire school and those who weren't able to come by called on the phone or helped out in other ways: Jim Stange's entire Art class made a massive sympathy card the next day at Westminster.

We didn't have Jordan with us anymore, but one thing we recognized we had that day was a community...a school family that barely knew us at the time, but still loved us. And even as we were (and are still at times) asking God "Why?" regarding his mysterious providence, we could see the "Who" of God's hands and heart that were displayed in the people of Westminster who reached out to us, who listened, who wept, and who anchored us in community.

It is my theological conviction that God's grace is certain and comes through in concrete fashion, even in times when his mercy seems more savage than kind. And as the years go by, and as I continue to miss my boy, I become more and more grateful for being a part of Westminster, a place that God has seen fit to pour out his kindness to us in hardships like these. In days when more and more people can lack a sense of relational depth, Westminster has become more and more an anchored community for me and my family. This weekend I feel that all the more because it's when that flavor of grace began six years ago, and for which I remain exceedingly thankful.